


The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth

by Ablazen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cosette & Enjolras are siblings - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Les Amis are supportive friends, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Practice Kissing, School Play, there's a cat too, they fake date too for a hot second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ablazen/pseuds/Ablazen
Summary: Really, it's all Bahorel's fault and Grantaire definitely should have seen it coming. There's no way he would have volunteered for a part in the play, let alone the part of Enjolras' love interest, if it wasn't for that stupid bet.(Or the one where Grantaire tries to hide how ridiculously in love he is, Enjolras is oblivious, and playing pretend makes them both realize just how much they're not pretending.)
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 99





	The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, folks!
> 
> I feel the need to point out that this was supposed be... maybe 5K tops. If you check the word count, you will see that it is very much not. Hurray for overwriting!
> 
> This fic was betaed by the lovely @anagramofanakin (go check them out on tumblr!) who has been so incredibly encouraging and patient with me! But any mistakes are completely and unfortunately my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: Les Mis and its characters are not mine (though I love and cherish them as if they were!). Title is, of course, a famous quote from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There’s also an Oscar Wilde quote jammed in here somewhere, see if you can find it! ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“We could do a play.”

The idea is tossed out by Marius during a Les Amis club brainstorming session for ways to raise awareness for Consent Week at their high school. Enjolras isn’t even certain he meant it as a serious suggestion, but the second the idea is out in the open, Courfeyrac jumps up in his seat, grinning like a madman and slamming both hands on his desk, and the room erupts into chaos.

“Oh my god, _yes-“_ Courfeyrac says.

“With a sword fight!” Bahorel joins in.

“It could even double as a fundraiser,” Cosette adds.

Enjolras has the immediate urge to shut down the suggestion and he has to stamp it down. It’s not like it’s a _bad_ idea, he just… Well, theatre isn’t exactly his thing - acting in character, essentially _lying_ , is definitely not his thing. But a minute ago, they were low on ideas and all slumped in their classroom desks, and now the majority of Les Amis are bouncing with excitement. He doesn’t want to be the one to crush that enthusiasm.

He schools his expression into something that he hopes isn’t too much of a grimace. Judging by the way Grantaire is raising an eyebrow and smirking at him from the back of the room, he probably isn’t very successful. Enjolras pointedly doesn’t look at him.

“ _If_ we did a play,” Enjolras speaks over the excited pterodactyl screeching, trying to regain some semblance of control over this meeting. “We would have to work fast. Consent Week is in just over a month and organizing something that big takes a lot of time.”

“Come on, Apollo.” Enjolras bristles at the nickname, but allows Grantaire to continue uninterrupted. Grantaire offers him a lopsided smirk as he stops his habitual doodling and instead points his pencil eraser at him. “An idea that isn’t dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.”

Enjolras automatically opens his mouth to protest - he can’t help it, Grantaire always pushes him and he has an incessant need to push back - but he finds himself... not _entirely_ in disagreement. He closes his mouth and keeps that thought to himself.

“We would have to speak with the Principal about using the stage.” Combeferre grabs a dry-erase marker and starts a neat bullet point list on the whiteboard at the front of the class.

“We could talk to Papa tonight,” Cosette smiles.

She looks to Enjolras and he can easily read the unspoken words in her eyes - _only if you’re okay with it._ He’s not surprised she can tell he’s hesitant about this whole idea and it’s reassuring to know that she’s looking out for him, as always.

Enjolras takes that as his cue and nods to Combeferre. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”

Combeferre nods in return and notes it on the board. “We’ll also have to advertise, make announcements and fliers and ask to have it printed in the school paper, find or make props and costumes, assign roles and practice lines. And since we don’t have that many people in the club, we’ll need to pick a play that doesn’t have many characters so that we don’t have to outsource roles.”

“I have…” Jehan looks down and bites the inside of his mouth. “I’ve kind of been dabbling in playwriting recently? I mean, I could-“

“You could _write_ us our own play!” Courfeyrac’s eyes are shining as he looks from Jehan to Enjolras and Combeferre. “This is awesome, we have to do this.”

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta exchange looks, Cosette is clapping enthusiastically, Marius’ doe-eyed gaze is fixed on her (as it always is) and Enjolras has no doubt that the reason he made the suggestion in the first place was for her. Bahorel is elbowing Grantaire, who’s rolling his eyes but grinning, Courfeyrac is smiling as wide as his face will allow and clearly it’s contagious, because so are Feuilly, Jehan and Combeferre. Eponine is the only one who doesn’t seem particularly enthused by the idea, but Enjolras honestly doesn’t remember the last time he ever saw her particularly enthused about anything. Enjolras catches Grantaire’s eye and helplessly watches as he gestures to Jehan, who’s laughing as Courfeyrac jostles him excitedly, and mouths ‘do it for him’. 

In other words, he already knows he’s going to be overruled if he says no to this and he’s no dictator.

“It’s doable,” he says, reluctant but earnest.

As begrudging as he is, he can’t help but think that it’s worth it to see his friends all turn their beaming smiles to him.

At the start of their next club meeting, Jehan hands out a stack of papers to each club member. Enjolras doesn’t even have to look down at his own papers to know that it reads _Consent Week Play Script 1.0_ because he, Jehan, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac have been debating plays all week. They haven’t even started rehearsing yet and Enjolras already knows half of everyone’s lines by heart.

“It’s still rough so I’ll be editing it as we go.” Jehan takes his seat and glances between Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, with a smile. “But this is the play we decided on.”

Enjolras nods to him before moving to stand in front of the group.

“So we made a list of all the roles,” he begins.

Combeferre marches up to the whiteboard and dutifully marks down _Male Lead_ , _Female Lead_ , _Villain_ -

“Oh oh oh!” Courfeyrac doesn’t wait for Combeferre to finish before raising his hand. “Dibs on Bad Guy!”

There are a few amused snorts from the others, but Combeferre only smiles fondly at him before asking the room, “Any objections?”

Enjolras is already certain there won’t be any - not with the way Courfeyrac is practically vibrating with excitement and the way Combeferre is smiling at him - but Combeferre diligently waits anyway. Once he receives the expected chorus of ‘no’s, he writes down Courfeyrac’s name in neat script next to the villain role, then finishes off the list with _Mentor, Evil Minions x2, Tech booth,_ and _Props & Costumes_.

They sort things out rather easily. Cosette volunteers for the tech booth, which means that of course Marius volunteers for the tech booth which means that of course Eponine volunteers for the tech booth. Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet volunteer for the minion roles, citing that they want their parts to be characters that interact a lot, and Jehan assures him that he can split the two roles into three to accommodate that. Jehan himself volunteers for costume design - even though the group insists that writing and editing the play as they go is already a big job - because he’s, quote, ‘the only one with any sense of fashion’. No one argues that. Bahorel volunteers for the role of the mentor and also for the role of fight choreographer, which is ridiculous because the play doesn’t _have_ any fight scenes and Enjolras says as much.

“No one’s going to come see the play if there isn’t at least ONE fight scene,” Bahorel insists.

Next to him, Grantaire nods like that makes perfect sense which it definitely does _not._ “He’s got a point.”

Enjolras throws his hands up in exasperation, “Who comes to a play expecting a _fight scene_?”

They put it to a vote. Enjolras loses.

Feuilly volunteers to be the narrator. The script doesn’t call for one of those either, but Enjolras keeps his mouth shut this time. Jehan kindly nods along and makes a note to write one in. Grantaire volunteers to make some posters, which doesn’t come as much of a surprise, because he always designs their flyers and posters, but Enjolras can still admit to himself that it’s a relief. Despite how much he rolls his eyes at Enjolras when he rants maybe a little too passionately about his latest cause, Grantaire always volunteers to help in some way and he always takes his assigned tasks seriously - not to mention, he’s a wickedly talented artist. His posters always look perfect and Enjolras would tell him as much if Grantaire didn’t always seem so uncomfortable anytime Enjolras tried to compliment him.

Once everyone is spoken for, Enjolras assesses the whiteboard.

“We still need a male lead,” he reminds them, frowning. He’s honestly surprised, he thought there would be more interest in the leading role.

Grantaire snorts, “I thought that one was obvious.”

All heads turn to him but he stares right at Enjolras, smirking brazenly. Enjolras lifts an eyebrow, Grantaire lifts one right back.

He doesn’t want to rise to the bait - and this is _clearly_ bait - but curiosity gets the best of him. “Is it?”

“Well yeah,” Grantaire continues. “I mean, obviously it has to be you. Our fearless leader, the almighty Apollo himself? No one’s going to buy you as anything other than the protagonist.”

Enjolras blinks at that, taken aback by what he thinks is a compliment.

But then, because Grantaire never gives out compliments freely - not to Enjolras at least, “Also, I read the first few pages and so far his main character trait is that he’s obnoxiously loud, so I figure it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for you.”

Enjolras’ wide-eyed surprise is immediately replaced with a scowl.

“I am _not_ loud!” he protests loudly.

Grantaire smirks and Enjolras can practically hear the unspoken _gotcha_. If possible, Enjolras’ scowl deepens.

“I speak with _purpose_ , there’s a difference.”

“Right,” Grantaire drawls out.

Grantaire expects him to argue - Enjolras can see it in the sparkle in his eyes and refuses to let himself be that predictable. Instead, he holds his gaze and speaks to Combeferre, “I’ll do it.” He says it like he’s accepting a challenge, which, in a way, he is.

The look of surprise crosses Grantaire’s face too quickly for Enjolras to fully appreciate, only to be replaced by his customary smug, lopsided grin. Enjolras holds his back straight, doesn’t look away and doesn’t back down from the challenge.

“Okay,” Combeferre examines the board. “That leaves us with the female lead.”

Oh right, he forgot that the male lead would have to perform with a love interest. He tries not to let his sudden hesitation show. Maybe he can find an easy way out of this?

Enjolras’ eyes fall onto Cosette, hopeful, “Cosette?”

“Enjolras,” Cosette smiles sweetly and Enjolras feels his hope blossoming. “I love you - you know I do - but there’s absolutely no way I’m playing my brother’s love interest.”

And just like that, his hope is shattered and so is his easy out.

Enjolras’ gaze lands on Eponine but before he can even say a word, she raises her hand and gives a firm, “Don’t even.”

With Musichetta already in the role of Minion #3, they’re fresh out of female club members and Enjolras opens his mouth to say as much when Bahorel suddenly sits up in his chair.

“Grantaire will do it,” he declares with an odd certainty. Grantaire almost falls out of his chair. When he swings forward and regains his balance, Bahorel is giving him a look that Enjolras can’t even begin to understand. “Won’t you, Grantaire?”

Grantaire blinks at him and for a moment, no one speaks.

“ _Won’t you,_ Grantaire?” Bahorel nudges him hard and something like recognition flashes across Grantaire’s face.

“Uh, yeah.” His gaze finds Enjolras’, clearly hesitant. He almost seems like he’s asking permission. “Yeah, I could do it.”

The suggestion fills Enjolras’ head with a million absurd questions that he definitely should not want to know the answers to - makes him wonder how Grantaire would play the part, makes him wonder how Grantaire would act if he were _actually_ in love with him - and something in his stomach flutters. He doesn’t know what to label the feeling - doesn’t even know if it’s positive or negative - but he doesn’t protest Grantaire’s offer. He tells himself it’s because there are no other options.

Combeferre pushes his glasses up and glances between Enjolras and Grantaire, who are still caught in their staring match. In his distraction, Enjolras misses the look he gives them.

“We can definitely make the female lead male. But the female lead is also the love interest,” Combeferre says. Grantaire breaks eye contact. “Is that alright?”

Once he looks away from Grantaire, it’s to find Combeferre giving him a stern look. He gets the feeling he’s missing something, but he doesn’t know what and Combeferre knows he’s bad with non-verbal cues so if he’s not saying it out loud, it’s probably not that important.

“Yeah,” he answers for both of them. “That’s fine.”

The meeting carries on from there and when he finally chances a brief glance over to Grantaire, the artist is obviously avoiding eye contact. Enjolras wonders, not for the first time this week, if this is all a mistake that he’s going to come to regret.

* * *

Grantaire is shifting in his seat and staring blankly at his script as the last chair is added to their misshapen chair circle. He’s been reading the same paragraph for the past fifteen minutes and he knows he’s not registering the words anymore, but he can’t look away. The second his eyes landed on the word ‘kiss’, his brain decided to take a temporary vacation.

He agreed to this, sure, but he didn’t expect… Well, he didn’t expect to have to do anything more than maybe gaze lovingly into Enjolras’ eyes. He could pretend to be in love with Enjolras - or more accurately, he could pretend that he was _just_ pretending to be in love with Enjolras - no problem, piece of cake, and he’s pretty sure he can even pretend that he isn’t affected when Enjolras inevitably has to pretend to be in love with _him_. But this is something else altogether. He can lie to himself and fake indifference if they’re just spewing mushy words at each other, but he can’t pretend nothing’s happening if they’re actually forced into something tangible and real. He doesn’t think he can handle getting everything he’s ever wanted, only to have it all be for a lie - an _act_.

He glances up just in time to see Enjolras sit down. He catches his eye and Grantaire wonders if Enjolras knows, wonders what he thinks of having to kiss Grantaire.

“I thought it might be good to start off with a table read,” Jehan suggests once everyone is seated around the circle. “Just to get familiar with the play and see how everyone feels in their role.”

It goes a lot better than Grantaire expected. Courfeyrac practices his evil laugh, clearly not for the first time. Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly fall into character with ease. Bahorel is maybe a little loud and exaggerated in his line delivery, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm. To Grantaire’s surprise, even Feuilly’s narration is engaging - he knows exactly when to pause for effect, when to rush his words, what tone to use to keep your attention.

The real surprise though comes when it’s Enjolras’ turn.

“Who is she - he? He’s the most-“ Enjolras grimaces at his script. “Beautiful creature-“ Enjolras eyes Jehan. “Creature? That seems kind of derogatory.”

Before Jehan can say anything, Grantaire is releasing the exasperated groan he’s been repressing for the past five minutes and slumping into his chair. They’ve barely made it through the first two pages of the script - Grantaire’s character hasn’t even spoken yet - and it’s already clear that Enjolras can’t act, can’t even _read_ in character. He never thought he would see Enjolras fail so miserably at anything and it might’ve been endearing if he wasn’t slowing their readthrough to a snail’s pace. But he is - he _definitely_ is - and Grantaire is _bored_ , he wants to _do_ something, anything would work but preferably something with his hands like drawing or painting or ripping his own hair out.

“For god’s sake!” He faceplants into his script for the third time since they’ve started practicing. “Just _read the lines_.”

Enjolras looks affronted. “I’d like to see _you_ do better.”

They lock eyes and Grantaire already knows it’s a bad idea because what they have - he’s not even sure he can call it a friendship, Enjolras probably sees it more as some kind of tentative truce for the sake of their mutual friends - has always been fragile. The entire concept of ‘pretending’ to be in love with Enjolras already hits way too close to home, the last thing he needs is for Enjolras to find out that he’s not actually pretending.

But it’s a challenge - a challenge from _Enjolras_ \- and this is what they do. He can’t back down without giving himself away.

Grantaire sets his script down and gets up from his chair.

“Who…” He settles his face into an expression ranging somewhere between awe, fascination, uncertainty, and curiosity, and lets out a half-laugh that sounds like it’s been surprised out of him. “Who _is_ he?” His gaze finds Enjolras and it’s easy to let his eyes soften. Grantaire doesn’t allow the shell-shocked look on Enjolras’ face deter him. He crosses the room in two long strides, kneels in front of Enjolras and gently takes his hand. Grantaire focuses on the act and ignores the feeling of Enjolras’ hand in his. It’s all he can do to stop himself from doing something stupid, like intertwining their fingers, but he’s distracted enough to slip-up his lines. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life.” 

Neither of them looks away and, for maybe the first time in his life, Enjolras seems to be completely speechless. The moment suddenly feels too intimate. Enjolras isn’t saying anything, isn’t breaking eye contact, and Grantaire doesn’t want to be the one to break the delicate silence. He gently runs his thumb along Enjolras’ knuckles and watches, fascinated, as a blush starts to creep up his neck.

The dramatic applause from Courfeyrac breaks the spell. Grantaire clears his throat and lets go of Enjolras’ hand, but he can tell from the corner of his eyes that Enjolras is still watching him.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac says, grinning. “That was awesome!”

“I didn’t take you for a theatre kid,” Bossuet adds.

Grantaire shrugs, the movement just a bit more jerky than usual, and makes his way back to his seat. “I’m not. I mean, I went to a theatre camp once. Wanted to try different art forms, you know? It didn’t stick.”

“Why not?” It’s the first thing Enjolras has said since Grantaire’s little display and when Grantaire faces him, it’s to find that Enjolras looks impressed. It’s not an expression that Grantaire is used to seeing aimed towards him and he has to look away to stop his face from heating up. “You’re clearly good at it.”

Grantaire shrugs again. “Just not my thing, I guess.”

Enjolras frowns and for a moment, Grantaire thinks that he’s going to lecture him, but he doesn’t say anything. In fact, Enjolras stays uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of practice, only speaking up to read his lines. It probably shouldn’t come as a shock when Enjolras corners him on his way out of the clubroom with Bahorel after practice.

“Teach me,” is all he says.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow and feels the corner of his lips twitch upwards. He isn’t surprised, exactly - it’s just like Enjolras to skip greetings and get right to the point - but the boy’s lack of social skills has always been, and he suspects always will be, an endless source of amusement.

“You know,” he drawls, leaning against the edge of a nearby desk. “You have a really funny way of saying hello.”

Enjolras crosses his arms, already on the defensive and Grantaire mentally pats himself on the back for how quickly he ruined any chance at a friendly conversation. “Grantaire, be serious.”

“Okay fine, I’ll bite.” That doesn’t mean he’s going to force back his growing smirk though. “What, exactly, is it that you want me to teach you?”

Enjolras shifts uncomfortably on his feet and takes just a moment too long to respond. “How to act.” It’s spat out like poison, like he wishes it was _anything_ else, and Grantaire is definitely smirking now. Enjolras scowls before he can say anything. “Don’t laugh, I mean it! I’m not good at this and you’re…” He seems to struggle to find the words, instead gesturing vaguely with his hands as if that will convey the message, and it’s so wildly out of character that Grantaire almost _does_ laugh. “You have training,” he finishes lamely.

Grantaire snorts at that and hikes his backpack up from where it’s sliding down his shoulder. “Wouldn’t exactly call a two-week summer camp ‘training’.”

Enjolras presses his lips into a thin line and lowers his gaze to the ground, and Grantaire doesn’t know what reaction he was expecting but it definitely wasn’t that. “Is that a no?” Somehow, even though he’s not staring Grantaire down like he normally would, he still has the same authoritative tone.

And well. Grantaire knows he probably _should_ say no. He knows he already put himself at risk of having his big stupid crush outed just by agreeing to act in the play - thank you, Bahorel - and teaching Enjolras how to act in love with him would just be the icing on the shitty-life-decisions cake.

But…

Enjolras glances up from whatever fascinating point he’s been observing on the ground and, even though Grantaire can see the ever-present fire in his eyes, there’s also a vulnerability there, like he’s already expecting to be shot down. Grantaire has to grip his backpack strap to keep from reaching out to comfort him somehow - he’s pretty sure they’re not close enough for that.

He can’t bring himself to say no.

Grantaire shrugs and he hopes his apparent ‘acting skills’ are serving him well now. “Sure, what the hell.”

Enjolras looks at him fully now and - oh no, that’s a smile, shit - Grantaire ignores the way it melts his heart into a puddle.

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras tells him. “I’ll meet you at your locker after class.”

Grantaire swallows. Well, there’s no turning back now.

“Sure,” he nods.

Enjolras flashes him a satisfied grin and promptly exits the room, leaving Grantaire to stare after him, wondering what the hell he just agreed to. He slowly adjusts his bag on his shoulders, leaves the room and finds Bahorel waiting for him just outside the door with a very distinct look on his face. He has smugness written all over him and Grantaire already knows he heard the entire conversation.

“I hate you,” he grumbles. “This is all your fault.”

If Bahorel hadn’t coerced him into a drinking game, if he hadn’t made that stupid bet and convinced a drunk Grantaire that it was a good idea, if he hadn’t laughed when Grantaire sorely lost and barked out “guess you owe me one!”, if he hadn’t decided that _this_ of all things was what Grantaire apparently ‘owed him’, Grantaire wouldn’t be in this mess.

But Bahorel - like the bastard he is - just grins. “You’ll thank me when this is over.”

Somehow Grantaire highly doubts that.

* * *

Enjolras considers himself to be a good student. He diligently takes notes, participates in class, asks questions, starts discussions - probably more than his teachers would like, but that’s besides the point. Enjolras is nothing if not focussed on his studies. But as he stares at the clock in his homeroom class and watches the seconds tick by, he slowly comes to the realization that he hasn’t paid attention to a word any of his teachers have said all day. When the ringing of the bell finally signals the end of class, he rushes to throw all of his textbooks into his bag and drops half of them in the process.

“What has you so distracted today?”

Enjolras startles at Combeferre’s voice and accidentally slams his knee into his desk, wincing as he does. His friend raises an eyebrow at the unusual reaction.

Enjolras composes himself and returns his attention to retrieving his fallen books. “What makes you think I’m distracted?”

It’s a stupid question and they both know it. They’ve known each other for half their lives and Combeferre has always been able to read him like a book, maybe even better than Cosette who has the advantage living with him. And even if that _weren’t_ the case, Enjolras has never been known for his subtlety.

“The teacher just talked about the supposed ‘benefits’ of capitalism for an hour and you didn’t even flinch,” Combeferre points out as they make their way out of the classroom.

Enjolras flinches now. 

“Okay, so maybe I was a little distracted,” he admits. Combeferre gives him The Look. “A _lot_ distracted. I just- I have plans after class and-”

“Plans that you’re so focused on you weren’t listening in class?”

The real question there is ‘ _what kind of plans could trump arguing against capitalism?’_ but Enjolras is eternally grateful that Combeferre didn’t word it like that because that would make his honest answer incredibly awkward.

He throws his books into his locker with much less care than usual and unconsciously checks the time on his phone. “I asked Grantaire to help me practice for the play.”

Something flashes in Combeferre’s eyes and Enjolras has this odd sense of deja-vu from yesterday at being unable to comprehend what it’s supposed to mean. Before he can try to figure it out, Combeferre is already turning to put his own books away a few lockers down.

“I see,” Combeferre says, and his tone is off too, as if he isn’t just talking about practicing for a play.

Enjolras knows something is up - clearly has been since Grantaire offered to take a part in the play - and he really, _really_ hates beating around the bush. But if Combeferre of all people is avoiding outright telling him what the problem is, then there’s definitely a reason. It leaves him conflicted as to whether or not he should ask about it.

Luckily he’s saved the trouble of deciding by Courfeyrac, who chooses this exact moment to appear out of nowhere and drape himself dramatically over Combeferre’s shoulders.

“So?” He’s grinning as he gives Combeferre a quick peck on the cheek. “What’d I miss? Who did Enjolras tear apart today?”

Combeferre doesn’t flinch at the sudden weight on his back, instead deadpans without looking away from his locker, “No one. He was distracted thinking about Grantaire.”

There’s a millisecond of complete and utter silence as both Coufeyrac and Enjolras fully register his words. Courfeyrac reacts first - of course he does - and bursts out laughing, burying his face in Combeferre’s shoulder. Enjolras’ face feels like it’s on fire and he automatically straightens his back. He doesn’t miss the slight upwards tilt to Combeferre’s mouth, he definitely did this on purpose.

Enjolras feels horribly betrayed.

“That’s _not-_ That wasn’t why-” And now he can’t even string a full sentence together. God, what’s wrong with him? He never stumbles over his words. Clearly he isn’t the only one who knows this, because it sets off another round of laughter from Courfeyrac. “I was thinking about the _play_!”

“Sure you were, _Apollo,_ ” Courfeyrac coos once he gets his laughter under control.

Enjolras scowls reflexively, “Don’t call me that.”

He doesn’t know why he feels the need to argue over a silly nickname but somehow it sounds wrong coming out of Courfeyrac’s mouth. He ignores the fact that, despite all of his scowls and grimaces, he’s never actually told _Grantaire_ not to use it, but unfortunately Courfeyrac is just about as observant as his boyfriend and he picks up on it immediately.

“Oh, so only Grantaire is allowed to call you nicknames?” He seems endlessly amused by this - _obviously baseless!_ \- accusation. “And here I thought you were an egalitarian.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to insist that it’s different with Grantaire - because he came up with the nickname? because he uses it playfully, not sarcastically? he doesn’t quite know why, he just knows that it’s definitely different - but Combeferre is faster, shutting his locker and pulling Courfeyrac away by their now-linked hands. “Enjoy your rehearsal, Enjolras.”

Enjolras can only nod as he watches them get swallowed by the crowd of students shuffling around the hallway and he’s so distracted by what Combeferre said that he doesn’t even realize his feet are taking him to Grantaire’s locker until he’s staring into bright blue eyes.

“Hey,” Grantaire greets him with a lazy smile.

Combeferre’s words echo through his head. _What has you so distracted today?_

He clears his throat and hopes his voice comes out somewhat steady. “Hey.”

It takes them some debating - surprise, surprise - to decide on the best way to go about practicing. They should really just use the clubroom, Enjolras insists, but Grantaire argues that they should practice on the stage in the cafeteria so it’s more authentic.

“It’s not like anyone’s using it.” Grantaire gestures to the deserted platform before throwing his backpack on the floor and hopping up. “No one’ll even notice.”

“We could get in trouble,” Enjolras protests, but he still sets his bag down next to Grantaire’s in front of the stage. He’s just arguing for the sake of arguing at this point.

Grantaire clearly knows this too, because he grins and offers Enjolras a hand, “And it’s always your priority to please authority figures, isn’t it?”

Enjolras huffs and firmly grasps Grantaire’s hand in response, allowing himself to be hauled onto the stage in one swift motion. If they end up a little too close or their hands linger for just a second longer than necessary, neither of them mentions it.

“Fine,” he declares, pretending he’s still the one in charge here. “We’ll do it your way.”

Grantaire’s grin quirks up a little at one corner like it does when he’s particularly pleased with something, but he makes no further comment on the matter.

They begin by trying out their lines in the scenes they have together. When it becomes clear that a scenery change hasn’t improved Enjolras’ emoting skills, Grantaire starts making him practice repeating after him.

It’s… admittedly a lot harder than stage performers make it look. There’s the fact that he doesn’t know how to force fake emotions into his voice, doesn’t know how to contort his face into unfamiliar expressions, doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his feet or any part of his body, really, and it’s frustrating. And it’s not that he isn’t trying - in fact, he’s trying really, _really_ hard, because Enjolras never gives less than 110% for anything he does - but he can hardly focus on saying his lines correctly, let alone remember where he’s supposed to stand and be aware of what his face is doing at the same time.

The fact that Grantaire is trying so earnestly to help him only makes him more determined to succeed and more frustrated that he isn’t.

It becomes even worse once the janitor enters the cafeteria, wheeling in a janitorial cart and whistling along to the music playing through her earphones. Enjolras stops halfway through his line and glances between her and Grantaire, who for his part just waves for him to continue. Enjolras waits a moment, hoping that she might not be staying in the room, but instead she promptly ignores them and starts mopping the cafeteria floor.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire pushes, regaining his attention. “If she wanted us to leave, she would’ve said so.”

Enjolras can’t find the words to express that that isn’t the reason he paused, so he chooses to simply nod and continue from where he left off. It’s not that he’s shy - far from it - but he can hear the music blasting through her earphones, can hear the rhythmic _swish swish_ of the mop, can see her moving from the corner of his eye, and his focus is even worse than it was before. He’s always been bad at focussing when his attention is divided and he’s far too acutely aware of her every movement as she makes her way around the room.

“Hey.” Grantaire’s sudden interruption startles him out of his thoughts. “Don’t worry about her.”

Enjolras twists his script in his hands and subtly eyes the janitor.

“I’m just finding it hard to focus,” he finally admits.

“Don’t pay attention to her.” _Easier said than done_ , Enjolras doesn’t say. “On performance day, this room is going to be packed. You need to get used to doing this in front of people.”

Enjolras catches Grantaire’s eye for the briefest second - he’s serious, maybe the most serious Enjolras has ever seen him, and seeing open determination on Grantaire should not mesmerize him as much as it does - but then he hears the mop slap the floor again and his eyes snap back to the janitor, who remains unbothered by his glances.

“I know, I just-”

A calloused hand - an _artist_ ’s hand - gently tilts Enjolras’ chin to face Grantaire again and he allows himself to go willingly, too stunned to protest.

“Just pretend there’s nothing past the stage,” he instructs. Enjolras stares into his eyes, only half-registers the words coming out of his mouth. “It’s just you and me. I’m the only other person on stage, just focus on me.”

Enjolras’ throat is suddenly and inexplicably dry. He swallows, “Okay.”

The obnoxious noises from the mop continue for a good ten minutes, but Enjolras never once looks away from Grantaire’s intense stare. The rest of practice goes by in a blur. He doesn’t fully register anything but the tingling sensation on his chin where Grantaire touched him until they both part ways to head home.

He doesn’t miss the way Cosette smiles at him when she picks him up, like she can somehow read his mind, but he pretends he doesn’t see it and tells himself that it wouldn’t matter even if she did know what he was thinking, because he’s not thinking of shockingly blue eyes and the dark curls that sometimes fall over them. That would be ridiculous, why would he do that?

* * *

“What have you done with him?!” Enjolras snaps, venomous and determined.

“ _Wha_ -” A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of Courfeyrac. “You’re making a rather serious accusation here. What makes you think I’ve done anything?”

Enjolras’ scowl deepens and his eyes narrow threateningly. “If you touch a single hair on his head-”

Grantaire quickly discovered during their little training session that Enjolras actually does really well in the scenes where his character is arguing with others - total shocker there. All Grantaire had to do was tell him to imagine that he’s arguing about the wage gap, corruption in politics, the under-representation of minorities, or literally any of the millions of other things that make his blood boil. His acting is still awkward and janky, especially in the less confrontational and more emotional scenes such as the grand love confession and would-be kissing scene that they always skip over - it’s a problem that Present Grantaire has decided to gift to Future Grantaire. But overall, Enjolras’ acting is leagues better than it was before.

Grantaire gives himself a pat on the back, he’s a good teacher.

Once they get through several scenes and it’s clear that Enjolras’ improved acting skills aren’t just a fluke, Courfeyrac lets out an impressed whistle. “Man, your special training really paid off.”

Enjolras’ eyes are burning with a single-minded determination that Grantaire has long ago discovered is entirely unique to him and when he looks to Grantaire, he smiles as if to share the victory with him. Grantaire returns the smile helplessly and hopes that it doesn’t look as ridiculously smitten as it feels.

“Yeah, it did,” Enjolras says.

And that’s when it clicks in Grantaire’s head. He knows that look in Enjolras’ eyes - has seen it hundreds of times in the past month alone. If he was hoping that their training session was a one-time thing, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

This time when he throws his bag over one shoulder and heads out of the clubroom, he’s prepared for the footsteps that follow after him.

“Grantaire.”

From anyone else, it might be a greeting, but from Enjolras, it’s a demand. Firm, authoritative, and claiming his undivided attention. Grantaire gives it willingly.

“Apollo,” he responds with a side-smirk.

Enjolras barrels on, pointedly ignoring the nickname. “Are you free tomorrow?” 

It’s such a poor way to start this conversation and it’s so _Enjolras_ to skip to the point without explaining anything that Grantaire really can’t be held accountable for his response.

“Why _Enjolras_ ,” He holds a hand to his chest and gapes, channeling his inner drama kid. “Are you asking me out on a _date_?”

It’s obviously a joke, he isn’t even trying to pretend that he’s serious, but Enjolras’ face flushes anyway and Grantaire barely has time to marvel at how the red on his cheeks matches the colour of Enjolras’ plaid shirt before he’s protesting.

“Wha- I- _No!_ ” He sputters and, really, Grantaire should make more flirtatious remarks if that’s the reaction it’s going to get. “To _practice_.”

Obviously Grantaire saw this coming, but it’s still gratifying to know that Enjolras sees him as useful for something. He isn’t used to having the upper hand. It’s weirdly exhilarating.

“I mean,” Enjolras suddenly backpedals as he regains his composure. “If you want to. It’s just that we have a lot of scenes together and last time really helped.”

As he’s never been one to deny Enjolras anything, Grantaire of course gives in and they make plans to meet after school the next day.

* * *

Enjolras is in such a rush for their rehearsal that he beelines straight from class to Grantaire, without even stopping at his own locker first. The boy in question is carelessly emptying the contents of his bag into his locker when Enjolras arrives at his side.

“I’ve done research,” he proudly proclaims. “And I think we should try method acting.”

All he gets in return is a blank stare.

“You know.” And really, Grantaire _should_ know. He’s the one with theatre experience. “Acting in character without a script? I think we could really benefit-”

“I know what method acting is.” Grantaire closes his locker just a little too hard and Enjolras has to refrain from reciting the school’s property damage policy. “It’s not a bad idea.”

Then why does he sound like he would rather eat his left shoe? Enjolras doesn’t ask.

“I was thinking that since we’ve really been having trouble with that-” The words stick in his mouth and he can’t quite find it in himself to say it outright, although he doesn’t know why. He tries not to analyze that too deeply. “Well, you know, _that_ scene, I figured it would be a good idea to practice being- uh, in love.” He forces back a grimace. Really, could his wording be any worse?

Grantaire clearly knows the scene Enjolras is talking about - the confession scene, the kiss scene, the grandiose love scene that they’ve both been making excuses to speed through or straight up bypass so far - because he starts picking at a dried patch of green paint on his finger and using it as an excuse to avoid eye contact.

“Yeah.” His tone says _no,_ but Enjolras can’t decide if he should point that out. “Okay, we can do that.”

He’s a little disappointed. He thought that Grantaire would be more onboard with the idea, but he just looks incredibly uncomfortable and now Enjolras regrets bringing it up.

He tries to give Grantaire a way out. “We don’t have to, I just thought-”

But then Grantaire’s gaze snaps up and his face splits into a grin.

Over the years they’ve known each other, Enjolras has taught himself to distinguish between Grantaire’s expressions, ever since he had the worrying realization that his taunting smirk, self-deprecating lip curl, and happy grin were all just slight variations of each other. Grantaire speaks more with his eyes and Enjolras has always made a point to be able to read them. That’s how Enjolras can immediately recognize that this grin is genuine and the knot of guilt in his stomach unfurls at the sight.

“No, you know what?” Grantaire’s eyes are bright and intent. It’s a rare and not at all unpleasant sight, and so Enjolras mentally catalogues the expression. “I have an idea.”

When they start navigating their way through the school halls, Enjolras is fully prepared to head to the cafeteria. He doesn’t intend to protest this time, he’s not too proud to concede that Grantaire was right about the stage making for good practice. That’s why he’s surprised when Grantaire veers off towards the school’s main entrance instead.

Enjolras plants his feet on the spot and calls after him. “Where are you going?”

Instead of answering, Grantaire just shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket, turns on his heels and pushes one of the front doors open with his back. He holds it open, presumably for Enjolras, and tips his head - _this way_. Outside then. That doesn’t tell Enjolras anything.

When he doesn’t move, one corner of Grantaire’s lips quirks up into a smirk, clearly amused by his confusion, and defensiveness prickles at Enjolras’ skin. He huffs irritably, but steps through the door as requested. _At least it’s sunny out_ , he reflects.

“Why aren’t we just doing this in the cafeteria?”

He doesn’t know why he even bothers asking, Enjolras is already sure he isn’t going to get a straight answer.

“It’s a surprise.” Grantaire doesn’t disappoint.

Enjolras follows as Grantaire leads him down the sidewalk, away from the school, and he’s honestly so confused that he can’t even find it in himself to be frustrated by Grantaire’s non-answer. They walk in tense silence for a good twenty seconds before Enjolras starts voicing guesses as to where they’re going. Grantaire humours him with vague hints and the occasional “getting warmer”. He’s debating between ‘a nice secluded park where Enjolras won’t be distracted by janitors just trying to do their job’ and ‘nowhere, Grantaire is just messing with him’ when Grantaire finally stops… in front of a random row of shops?

Grantaire grins at him like he’s supposed to understand, but he really, _really_ doesn’t.

“It looks... a little crowded.” He politely avoids saying _we obviously can’t practice here._

“That’s the point,” Grantaire counters, his grin never faltering. When Enjolras hesitates a second too long, Grantaire reaches over and takes his hand in his own. “Come on, have a little faith.”

The sudden point of contact between them is pleasantly warm and he can’t stop staring at their joined hands, because _why is Grantaire holding his hand?_

“Wait, what are-”

Grantaire doesn’t let him finish speaking, instead pulling him along as he steps into a bakery and makes his way to the back of the ordering line. As soon as it’s within their line of sight, Grantaire points to a blackboard near the counter that has the coloured chalk drawing of a dessert - two cream-filled pastries covered with little heart designs and strategically doused in caramel - on it. If Enjolras wasn’t confused before, he certainly is now.

“So here’s the deal,” Grantaire says. “They have a special offer this month just for couples, some kind of exclusive dessert. I came in a few days ago and they wouldn’t let me try it. So we-” 

“They wouldn’t even let you buy it?” The _nerve_. The bakery staff are lucky Enjolras wasn’t with Grantaire at the time, he would’ve verbally eviscerated whoever made the dumb decision to make a discriminatory dessert. “Why? Because you’re single? That’s-“

“ _Focus_ , Apollo. We can dissect the issues with that later, but right now, we-“ He gestures between himself and Enjolras with his free hand. “Are going to convince the cashier that we’re dating so I can try that stupid thing.”

Enjolras didn’t have any expectations when they first walked into this bakery - if anything, he was actively expecting the unexpected - and yet somehow, _somehow_ he’s still surprised by this turn of events. It doesn’t help that his stomach is doing flips, but he supposes that the nature of the task and the lack of mental preparation are probably just making him nervous.

He considers turning down the idea for about a millisecond.

Instead he nods. “What’s the plan?”

“No plan, we just act sickeningly sweet.” Grantaire holds up their linked hands to demonstrate and Enjolras stubbornly ignores the heat rising to his cheeks at the reminder. “One rule though, we can’t ask for the dessert. They have to assume we’re a couple and offer it.”

They can do this. Enjolras is pretty sure that he can pretend to be Grantaire’s boyfriend. He side-eyes Grantaire as they approach the counter, watches the easy grin he sends Enjolras for his effort, and - scratch that - he’s absolutely certain that he can pretend to be Grantaire’s boyfriend. This is going to be easy.

“Hey!” The cashier greets them with a customer service smile. “What can I get ya?”

Enjolras doesn’t realize that he’s got Grantaire’s hand in a death grip until the boy in question gives his hand a light squeeze. When he turns his gaze to see Grantaire watching him with an uncharacteristically gentle smile, he forgets for a second that they’re supposed to be acting. He shouldn’t find his shoulders relaxing, shouldn’t find the look in his eyes to be comforting, shouldn’t let himself be affected by it. He should brush it off and play along. It’s just an act, that’s the point.

Grantaire turns his attention to the cashier and taps the glass behind which the food is displayed. “Just two of these sandwiches, but for one of them, no tomato and go light on the mayo.”

Enjolras doesn’t ask how he knows his sandwich preferences - that seems like something a real boyfriend would probably know and he’s not going to blow their cover after only three seconds just to satiate his curiosity - but it’s a close call. The way that Grantaire avoids eye contact suggests that he knows the unspoken question anyway.

The cashier nods and dutifully smashes the buttons on the register. Grantaire releases Enjolras’ hand and pulls out a bill before the guy even reads off their total, and Enjolras quickly grabs his arm to stop him.

“You aren’t paying for me,” he protests.

“Yeah, I am.”

“ _Grantaire_.”

“Relax, Apollo.” Grantaire gives him a crooked grin, mischievous and honest and not at all sappy. There’s something in his eyes that Enjolras can’t quite define - something that he thinks has always been there - but it’s not the same open fondness from two minutes ago that Enjolras is still trying to categorize as real or fake. _This_ is what Enjolras is familiar with, arguing and competing with Grantaire, and it’s easy to fall back into the familiar routine and give him a stern look. “Consider it payback for the snacks last Thursday.”

It was for a club meeting and the snacks were obviously for any Les Amis club member, but Enjolras is impressed at how he makes it sound like it was just for him.

“But we should split-”

They’re already close enough that Grantaire barely has to lean forward for his lips to ghost Enjolras’ ear. Enjolras freezes on the spot.

“If we were actually dating,” he whispers so that the cashier can’t hear. “I would kiss you to win this argument.”

He curses the blush that starts creeping up his cheeks because he’s sure Grantaire can see it - the way his lips twitch proves that - and Enjolras hates that he’s so affected by something that Grantaire can be so nonchalant about. From the corner of his eye, he sees Grantaire slide the bill across the counter and realizes what should’ve been immediately obvious - this was a distraction. Enjolras decides that if Grantaire wants to play dirty, so will he.

“I would let you.” He reaches over to adjust Grantaire’s hood and pick off some invisible lint, and lets his hands rest there. He pretends it’s unintentional that his hands brush against Grantaire’s collarbone. “If we were dating.”

Grantaire backs away, not far enough. From here, Enjolras can see every single detail of his face - can see the way his eyes darken, the flicker of his gaze downwards, the increasing unsteadiness of his breathing. Grantaire shifts forward ever so slightly and -

“Oh hey!” The cashier exclaims and Enjolras immediately breaks apart from Grantaire. “You guys are dating, right? We actually have a special deal on for couples right now.”

Enjolras forgets for a moment that this is all an act and thus his first instinct is to vehemently deny it. He just barely remembers on time to hold his tongue. Instead he nods along as the cashier rambles on about their exclusive couple’s dessert and tells them that they just _need_ to try it. Grantaire is unsurprisingly pleased by this, though Enjolras notes that his grin no longer reaches his eyes.

When they settle down at a table with their sandwiches and the infamous dessert, they pointedly avoid talking about… whatever just happened, or even the play in general. Instead, they start discussing the ridiculousness of having a dessert that’s exclusive to couples in the first place, which naturally dissolves into an argument about how such a thing excludes and shames people who don’t conform to society’s notion that everyone needs to be part of a couple. Enjolras rants about partners like Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta - would they be allowed the dessert? - and those who are aro or ace and those who are single by choice and those who are single not by choice, who receive this as a cruel reminder, and how it’s unethical to sell something only to customers of a specific demographic. As always, Grantaire plays Devil’s advocate and they slide back into their comfort zone once again. It’s easy to forget the look Grantaire had given him. Okay, maybe not quite, but it’s a good distraction.

It isn’t until much later that Enjolras realizes that at no point was he acting for their intended audience. The impulsive act he put on was for Grantaire and Grantaire alone.

He wonders how much Grantaire was faking.

* * *

Practicing for an acting role was only one aspect of preparing for the play. There were various other forms of prep work that had to be done and, upon finalizing the decision to do this as their fundraiser, Combeferre and Enjolras had quickly divided these tasks amongst the members of Les Amis and dedicated half of their biweekly meetings to completing them. As the artist of the group, Grantaire wasn’t surprised to be assigned some of the prop preparation tasks, notably the painting. Apparently working around the clock to learn his part _and_ teach Enjolras how to make facial expressions isn’t enough to get him out of it, but he doesn’t really mind. In fact, he’s pretty happy to sit down for hours at a time to paint once he finds out that his task buddy for this is Eponine.

That’s how they find themselves on Friday evening after Les Amis split into groups to get to work, sitting across from each other on the floor of the school’s remarkably small art room, painting opposite ends of a very short mountain. They don’t always talk - part of the joy of spending time with Eponine is that they’re both quite comfortable just quietly existing in the same space - but Grantaire can tell by the glances she keeps giving him and the way she shifts that she has something on her mind today.

“Heard you’ve been teaching Enjolras how to act.” She says it casually, as if she doesn’t know the significance of that statement, and _oh, that explains it._

For as long as Grantaire can remember, Eponine has known about his crush on Enjolras and he’s been aware of hers on Marius. They’ve never talked about it, but there’s an understanding between them, borne of commiseration, and it’s one of the reasons they’ve always gotten along so well. This unspoken understanding is how he knows that she’s trying to ask if he’s okay without saying it outright.

“Yeah.” He shrugs noncommittally and he can tell by the look in her eyes that she got her answer, and it’s not what he was hoping to have her believe. “He’s getting better, but he’s… not exactly a natural.”

“You don’t need to tell me that, I saw him at rehearsal.”

Grantaire snorts at the deadpan tone of her voice and they lapse back into silence. Eponine adjusts her skirt around her and he knows it won’t last.

“I’m surprised you agreed to this,” she says.

Grantaire furrows his brows. “Teaching Enjolras to act or painting?”

“All of this.” Eponine clarifies, gesturing around the room with her paintbrush. “You volunteered to play his love interest.”

Her eyes ask why, but Grantaire can’t bring himself to admit that part of him thinks that having his unrequited crush rubbed in his face is worth it for what he has right now. He knows it’s stupid, he’s just torturing himself in the long run because it won’t last and it’s ridiculous to let himself imagine that Enjolras is actually enjoying the time they spend together, but he doesn’t regret any of it.

Instead of telling her this, he shrugs and goes with a half-truth. “Lost a bet with Bahorel, the deal was that the loser owed the winner a favour.” He doesn’t tell her that the bet Drunk Grantaire lost was that Sober Grantaire would ask Enjolras out, because that’s besides the point and he really doesn’t want to say it out loud. “He decided to cash it in for this. Honestly, it could’ve been so much worse.”

Because that’s really all there is to it. He’s doing this for a bet, Enjolras is doing this because he’s loyal to the cause, and that’s it. Anything else is just in Grantaire’s head.

_If we were dating, I would kiss you._

_I would let you._

He clears his throat.

“He’s better than I thought he’d be at… pretending to be in love.” He leaves the ‘with me’ unsaid, knowing that she’ll understand the implication.

Eponine hums mildly and focuses on her gentle paint strokes up and down the mountain. She’s silent for long enough that Grantaire assumes she isn’t going to speak and returns his attention to his own painting.

“What if he’s not pretending?”

Grantaire fumbles and drops his paintbrush, cursing when it clatters onto the ground and leaves a big splotch of dark blue. He jumps to his feet and runs to the sink to grab paper towel.

“Why would you even-” He rips the paper towel off the roll with far more force than required and returns to scrub at the floor, pointedly not making eye contact with Eponine. “Of _course_ he’s pretending.”

“You’re the one who said he sucks at act-”

That’s when the door flies open - with Grantaire bent over the floor, wiping the paint so aggressively that he’s starting to wonder if it’s going to turn the tile permanently blue - and when he looks up, he instantly wishes the ground would swallow him whole, because of course, _of course_ it’s Enjolras standing at the door. His piercing gaze instantly falls on Grantaire.

“Enjolras,” he definitely does _not_ squeak. “Hey, hi.”

Enjolras marches directly to Grantaire, without even a glance in Eponine’s direction, and under normal circumstances Grantaire would be delighted to have his undivided attention, but right now it’s just activating his fight or flight reflex, and it’s a struggle not to squirm under his intent gaze.

_What if he’s not pretending?_

“Can you stay after the club meeting to rehearse?”

“Sure.” The answer is automatic at this point. As if Grantaire could ever say no to him.

When Enjolras nods and turns on his heel, Grantaire assumes that’s the end of their conversation, but Enjolras takes exactly two steps towards the door before Eponine is speaking up.

“Hey,” she calls out, not even looking up from where she’s painting little gray swirls, and Enjolras pauses. “Are you doing anything right now?”

Enjolras stiffens, clearing taking it as an accusation instead of a question. “Of course I am. I’m helping Combeferre make budget calculations and-”

“Sounds boring,” Eponine deadpans. She finally looks at him from over the mountain that’s half on her lap and twirls her paintbrush around. “I’m sure Combeferre won’t miss you for half an hour, wanna paint instead?”

Enjolras blinks. So does Grantaire. What’s her game here? Why the hell would Eponine ask Enjolras if he wants to spend time with them? She can barely tolerate him when she _has to._

Regardless of how out of left field the offer is, Enjolras seems to have dropped his defensive barriers and Grantaire is certain he can see the ghost of a smile there. “I would love to help.”

“Great.” She shoves her half of the mountain off of her, sets down her paintbrush, and stands up all in one swift motion. Grantaire is left staring, beyond confused, as she dusts off her skirt. They’re supposed to keep painting for another thirty minutes, what is she doing? “Because I would love to go home. Take over for me.”

“You don’t have to leave on my accou-”

Eponine doesn’t wait for him to finish, just makes her way straight to the door and calls over her shoulder. “Don’t ever assume I’m doing anything on your account.” She pauses at the threshold to throw Grantaire an all-too-knowing look over her shoulder, a look that clearly says _sort out your shit with this oblivious buffoon before I do it myself_. He’s grateful she doesn’t say it out loud. “Try not to miss me too much.”

With that, she exits the room, leaving both Grantaire and Enjolras staring at the empty doorway as if it somehow held the answer to what just happened. Unsurprisingly, Enjolras is the one to speak up first.

“I’m… sorry?” He sounds as confused as Grantaire feels. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Grantaire waves a hand dismissively. “You didn’t, Eponine’s just like that.” He obviously can’t tell Enjolras that it was just a ploy to leave them alone together. 

Enjolras still looks unsure, glancing between the unfinished mountain that fell off Grantaire during Eponine’s quick escape and the doorway.

“Should I- Do you want me to go? Or- I should probably help you with that. Since it’s my fault she’s gone.”

Grantaire can’t tell which option Enjolras would prefer, can’t even tell which option _he_ would prefer himself, so he just shrugs halfheartedly and returns his attention to the mountain, which he carefully drags back onto his lap.

“Do what you want,” he says as he dips his paintbrush back into the blue to pick up from where he left off.

He pointedly doesn’t look up because he can’t risk seeing the pity on Enjolras’ face if he says he doesn’t want to be here.

“I want to help.”

It’s said with such strong determination that Grantaire can’t help but look and be drawn in by the earnest shine of those stormy eyes. He looks like he does every time he’s about to vent about a cause or start an argument, it’s that same burning passion he puts into everything he genuinely cares about and it’s for _Grantaire._ He doesn’t let it go to his head, because he knows how dangerous that train of thought is, but he can’t ignore how warm his chest feels.

Grantaire lets a lazy grin slip onto his face and nods to Eponine’s abandoned paintbrush. Enjolras takes his place at his side without protest.

* * *

They get caught up in a debate and accidentally spend an extra forty minutes painting, not that Enjolras can bring himself to mind. The only downside is that once they finally make their way to the cafeteria stage, they discover that the school band has already taken over to practice for an upcoming concert. This becomes more of a problem when they default back to their clubroom and find that it’s being used by the drama club that got kicked off the stage.

“That’s okay,” Enjolras insists. “We can practice at my place.”

His first evening back home after rehearsing with Grantaire, Cosette had spent all of supper divulging the details about what Enjolras had been doing at school so late after class to their father.

 _Grantaire is teaching him how to love,_ she’d proclaimed, _isn’t that so romantic?_

It was really, _really_ embarrassing, especially when their father had nodded solemnly and told Enjolras that he should bring his friend - _friend,_ enunciated with a clear implication that Enjolras promptly ignored - over to rehearse at their place. At the time, Enjolras had shoveled food into his mouth as quickly as possible to end the conversation before his face burst into actual flames, but he’s grateful for it now as he and Grantaire stand awkwardly in the deserted school hallway with nowhere else to go.

“Sure,” Grantaire agrees. “I’ll drive.”

Enjolras is incredibly grateful that he offers, because he really doesn’t want to have to ask Cosette to drive them. He just _knows_ that she would shoot him teasing glances for the entire trip home.

Enjolras gives Grantaire directions on the drive there and he’s surprised to realize that Grantaire has never actually been to his house before. He knows he’s had most of the members of Les Amis over at some point but somehow, apparently not Grantaire. The thought makes him unusually self-conscious as they pull into his driveway and Grantaire kills the engine, and he holds his backpack strap maybe a little tighter than strictly necessary as he opens the front door.

Of course, objectively, Enjolras knows their house is nice. His dad is well-off, and since both Cosette and Enjolras had been adopted from bad family situations, Valjean had made a point to make them feel at home by letting them decorate as they pleased. He had plastered their drawings all over the walls, giving the modern house a cozy atmosphere. The butterfly and smiley face magnets on the fridge hold up his three favourite pictures of them as a family. 

There are signs of life all around the house - clearly a family’s home - but it also remains distinguished and polished.

Grantaire whistles as he takes it in. “Man, I knew you guys were rich but...”

“We’re not _rich_ ,” Enjolras is quick to protest. “We’re well-off.”

“Those are literally synonyms.”

“There is a _distinct_ difference between-”

“Mrrow.”

Enjolras’ eyes fall to the staircase where the cat is languidly sliding between the railing posts and fixing her sharp stare on them. Her eyes flick to Grantaire and remain on him. She’s never been a fan of guests and Enjolras doesn’t expect her to stick around long.

“You have a cat.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest that she’s _Cosette’s_ cat, but when he turns his attention to Grantaire, all he sees is a wide, genuine smile and he can’t bring himself to be snappy.

“Her name is Patria,” he says instead. Grantaire snorts and mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like ‘of course it is’, but Enjolras doesn’t comment. He does, however, feel the need to give a forewarning when Grantaire bends down to the cat’s level. “She doesn’t really like strangers.”

 _Or me,_ he doesn’t say. Despite being the one who named her, Patria had never particularly liked him. Well, okay, that was an understatement. Enjolras was pretty sure she actively had it out for him for one reason or another - he probably dropped her as a kid, who knows.

So of course, true to her nature of defying Enjolras in every possible way, the cat actually marches her way down the stairs to sniff Grantaire’s outstretched hand. She lets out a demanding meow before stalking away from the hand and instead rubbing against his legs.

“Guess I’m an exception then.” Grantaire winks at him.

Enjolras narrows his eyes at the cat. _Traitor._

She promptly ignores him and allows Grantaire to pet her very briefly.

Introducing Grantaire to their cat turns out to be a mistake, because they somehow end up sitting on the stairs with the cat doing laps around them, avoiding unwanted pets, intermittently meowing and nudging Grantaire’s legs with her head. He’s clearly enchanted by her, although Enjolras can’t imagine why, what with her standoffish behaviour and loud meowing, but once his initial surprise fades, Enjolras finds himself oddly endeared by the sight of Grantaire interacting with the cat. There’s a gentleness in his eyes that he doesn’t usually show so openly, it makes Enjolras curious.

He leans back on his elbows and carefully watches Grantaire from the corner of his eye.

“Grantaire...” He tries to sort his thoughts into a coherent sentence, he doesn’t want his words to sound like an accusation. Grantaire seems to think that he’s requesting his attention, however, because he hums an acknowledgement that he’s listening, even as his eyes stay on the cat. “Why did you volunteer for the play?”

Grantaire’s gaze is on him in an instant and he almost regrets asking the question, because there’s something very… hunted about his expression. His eyes quickly return to the cat.

“Why, are you upset I did?”

That’s exactly the kind of assumption Enjolras was trying to avoid.

“I’m actually relieved you did, no one else wanted to.” Somehow that doesn’t sound quite right to his own ears, but he carries on. “I just- I’ve been wondering for awhile now. I was a little surprised.”

Grantaire laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “Yeah well, I lost a bet to Bahorel.”

Enjolras figured the reason was something along those lines - Bahorel hadn’t been subtle with his elbow jabbing and eyebrow wiggles - but it’s still disappointing to hear that Grantaire didn’t volunteer for this just… because he wanted to. Of course, it’s a ridiculous notion. Why would he _want_ to act the part of Enjolras’ love interest? Enjolras tells himself he’s not bothered by the admission.

“You’re doing _all this_ for a bet?” He can’t help himself. “That’s a lot of dedication, how many hours have we spent rehearsing?”

“Your little private sessions weren’t part of the deal.” Grantaire’s tone aims for joking, but just barely misses the mark. Unfortunately, he keeps his focus on the cat and, with his head tipped down, his black curls are falling over his eyes, which means Enjolras has no chance of reading his expression. “You just happen to be really persuasive.”

Enjolras realizes too late that ‘dedication’ wasn’t the right word to joke about. Grantaire may not have Enjolras’ drive and passion, but he’s nothing if not dedicated to his friends and amazingly, to Enjolras.

“If only you thought so every time we argue.”

Grantaire snorts and this time, Enjolras can tell that it’s real.

“That’s bullshit,” he smirks. “You would get so bored if I agreed with everything you say.”

While he’s probably not _wrong,_ Enjolras absolutely refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead of answering, he gets to his feet and tells Grantaire that they should start rehearsing. Grantaire gives the cat one last throat scritch before obediently following Enjolras to his room.

* * *

It becomes something of a routine after that. After every Les Amis meeting, Enjolras comes by the art room right around the time Eponine leaves and offers to help Grantaire paint, they talk about everything and nothing, inevitably fall into a debate, after which Grantaire drives them to Enjolras’ place to rehearse their roles. Grantaire pets his cat, who actually seems to like him, and they practice lines in Enjolras’ room. Sometimes Cosette catches them or Valjean greets them at the door, but for the most part, they’re left to their own devices.

It’s such a common occurrence that Grantaire barely glances up when Enjolras strolls into the art room. He’s a little early, Eponine is still there and glances between them. That’s not a first, though Enjolras usually makes a point to come in after Eponine leaves so that she doesn’t ‘feel the need to run away’, as he’d so eloquently put it. It is, however, a surprise when Enjolras uses his foot to nudge Grantaire’s leg instead of sitting down as usual.

“Get up.” It’s a command, but he’s smiling, so at least Grantaire knows that he’s not in trouble. “Bahorel is going to teach us the choreography for the fight scene.”

Oh right, he’d completely forgotten about that.

Bahorel was really excited to stage a fight scene, he’d ranted to Grantaire about it several times during their latest boxing sessions. He’d told him all about his thought process - how he initially wanted hand to hand combat, but then figured that a sword fight would be easier for injury prevention, how he wanted the scene to showcase both the confrontational and romantic tension between the two leads. Grantaire had punched him a little harder than usual when he’d said that and Bahorel had laughed it off with an unashamed ‘you’re welcome!’ like the terrible friend he is.

Grantaire gives Enjolras a nod, then moves around the room to put away his painting supplies. He pointedly ignores Eponine’s call of ‘be safe, use protection’ as they exit the room and, when Enjolras asks what she said, he’s quick to dismiss it and drag him away.

They arrive at the school gym, Bahorel is waiting for them, holding three foils that he probably snagged from the fencing club, and he looks far too excited for this to be good news for Grantaire.

“Cheer up, R.” Bahorel gives him a firm pat on the back and shoves one of the swords into his hands. “You’re gonna love this.”

Somehow Grantaire highly doubts that, but he accepts the weapon nonetheless.

Bahorel gets him and Enjolras set up on a mat, and things immediately go downhill, because Bahorel tells them to take their fight stances and Enjolras clearly doesn’t know what that means. Grantaire, who’s fenced for years, spends a solid five minutes in position, waiting, as Enjolras tries - and fails - to imitate him. He’s stiff, his body not angled properly, while his free hand is doing god-knows-what, and he looks way too confident for someone who clearly has no idea what he’s doing. It’s the second time Grantaire discovers that Enjolras lacks natural talent at something, and while he should probably find it unattractive to watch the object of his affection stumble, he instead finds his lips quirking up at the sight.

“That’s not- No.” Grantaire breaks form to cover his laugh with a cough into his hand. “Please stop.”

Enjolras huffs and lets his posture go slack.

“You can’t blame me for not knowing how to fence. I’ve never tried it before,” he says.

“It’s alright,” Bahorel jumps in quickly, probably sensing an incoming argument, and Grantaire resents that because he had a great comeback. “That’s what we’re here for.”

Bahorel positions himself parallel to Enjolras and takes first position. He carefully explains everything; foot position, body angle, bent knees, where to point the foil, as Enjolras listens on intently, nodding and trying to match him. It still… leaves a little to be desired.

“Wait,” Grantaire interrupts. “Here, let me.”

Enjolras’ eyes snap to him as Grantaire sets down his own foil and comes to stand in front of him, but Grantaire keeps his focus strictly on Enjolras’ stance. He doesn’t really think it through, just acts on instinct when he gently kicks Enjolras’ feet further apart, places one hand on his hips to angle him properly and one on his shoulders to correct his posture.

“You have to keep your back straight,” he instructs, scanning Enjolras for any more faults. He was a little stiff before, but it’s nothing compared to now. Grantaire frowns. “And you need to relax, you’re really tense.”

“I’m not tense.” It’s a weak protest, spoken too quietly and too quickly, and Enjolras doesn’t _do_ weak protests.

When Grantaire finally looks up, it’s to find Enjolras’ eyes fixed on him. He’s suddenly far too aware of his hands on Enjolras, of their proximity and the warmth of body heat through his thin t-shirt, and has to fight his immediate reflex to pull back.

 _It’s all in my head,_ he reminds himself.

“Just-“ He adjusts and smoothes both hands over Enjolras’ shoulders in what’s meant to be a comforting gesture. It does nothing to soothe the tension in his body. “Your back should be straight, but you want to keep your shoulders loose. Otherwise you’ll strain something. You’re gonna need to practice this a bit.”

Enjolras nods and Grantaire releases him.

Bahorel, whom Grantaire had completely forgotten was there, stands with his arms crossed and a knowing grin spread across his face as Grantaire makes his way back to his own side of the mat. Grantaire just barely refrains from flipping him the bird. Unfortunately, Bahorel only seems spurred on - whether by Grantaire’s exasperation or by his interaction with Enjolras, he’s not sure - and he spends the rest of their practice ensuring that they get tangled up as much as possible, claiming that it’s meant to display the romantic tension between their characters. He’s smirking at Grantaire way too much for it to be just about the play though, the bastard.

Grantaire needs new friends.

* * *

With their performance right around the corner, Les Amis start practicing as a group more often. They meet up on weekends, after school, at lunch, they claim the school stage as often as possible, and Enjolras firmly believes that their acting is as good as it’s going to get. Jehan finalizes the script, everyone has their lines memorized by now, he and Grantaire have the fight scene figured out, and they all play off each other really nicely when they’re performing.

Now that Enjolras is more comfortable in his role, he’s starting to truly embrace it. He matches Courfeyrac’s enthusiasm with righteous fury and, even though it’s scripted, it’s fun to verbally spar with him. Bossuet and Musichetta are easy to act with too, it’s almost unnerving how naturally they fall into their villainous roles. Joly is maybe a little more difficult because he’s supposed to be one of the bad guys, but he’s _Joly_ and nothing he does could ever come off as malicious.

His scenes with Grantaire go pretty smoothly too. In fact, he and Grantaire have the best acting chemistry by far, and Enjolras attributes that to all of their one-on-one rehearsals. He wishes he could say it’s because he’s vastly improved, but Enjolras has come to admit to himself that it isn’t his increasing comfort level that’s the cause for their strong dynamic. Rather it seems that most of their improvement is thanks to Grantaire, who’s learnt to adapt to Enjolras mid-performance in order to cover for him. If he stumbles over his words, Grantaire pretends it was intentional and gazes at him as if endeared. If he stands in the wrong spot, Grantaire grabs his hand and drags him to his designated location as if it was completely scripted. Some of his spontaneous coverups even make it into Jehan’s final script.

All in all, Enjolras thinks they’re doing really well.

There’s just the one recurring issue.

“It’s in this moment that the swordsman realizes that he never wants to live without this man,” Feuilly narrates.

This is the part in the script where Enjolras’ character is supposed to give an eloquent speech before asking permission to kiss Grantaire’s character, an addition to the original script which was made especially for Consent Week, but he has yet to bring himself to say the words. Instead, Enjolras and Grantaire stand directly in front of each other and pointedly avoid eye contact, as they always do for this scene. Enjolras is the first to act, clearing his throat and giving Grantaire the most chaste possible kiss on the cheek, before they continue the scene and fall back into their comfort zones.

They’ve gotten past the fear of the scene itself, at least, now they can properly recite their lines and gaze lovingly at each other. The only problem is that stupid kiss. Everytime Feuilly dutifully cues them, the atmosphere in the room grows heavy and Enjolras can tell, without even looking, that all of their friends are waiting to see if this will be the time they finally get it right.

It really shouldn’t be that complicated, it’s just a quick kiss, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to broach the subject with Grantaire, who for his part seems quite happy to pretend the problem doesn’t exist at all. Enjolras is a very direct person and he would normally tackle an issue like this head-on, but he can tell that the whole situation makes Grantaire uncomfortable and… Well, comforting people has never been his strong suit.

He’d been hoping the awkwardness would wear off, but now it’s becoming increasingly clear that if he doesn’t tackle this before their school performance, they won’t be able to do the scene. He says as much to Combeferre and Courfeyrac after the rest of Les Amis have dispersed to work on their individual tasks.

“It _is_ an unusual situation,” Combeferre points out. “You have to understand how uncomfortable it must be for him.”

Courfeyrac, who’s sitting backwards in his seat, crosses his arms over the back of his chair and sets his chin on top. He’s watching Enjolras with an inordinate level of calm and attention that’s more than a little unsettling.

“Don’t you find it awkward?” he asks. “The thought of kissing R?”

It’s a question he debated as soon as he found out there was a scripted kiss, but he’d come to his conclusion near instantaneously. It doesn’t change now.

“No,” he admits. “Why would I? It’s for a fundraiser and Grantaire is my friend. And even objectively-speaking, he’s really attractive so you know… it’s not like it’s a huge sacrifice.”

“With all due respect to Grantaire,” Combeferre says. “ _Objectively-speaking_ , I would disagree.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest, because surely he’s not the only who’s aware that Grantaire is hot - Combeferre has to be messing with him - but Courfeyrac beats him to the punch.

His grin is akin to that of the Cheshire Cat when he coos, “You’re just saying that because you managed to snatch my fine ass and I ruined you for anyone else.”

Combeferre doesn’t deign that worthy of a response.

“You’re really saying that you wouldn’t mind kissing Grantaire?” he continues to prod.

“It’s just- It’s really frustrating that we can’t do this _one_ scene,” Enjolras says, avoiding the question. “I’m going to have to talk to him about it at some point. If he doesn’t want to do the kiss, that’s his choice and I’ll respect it, but I need to know now so we can figure out an alternative.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, Enj. I don’t think that’s the problem.” Courfeyrac hums thoughtfully, his mischievous smirk now aimed at Enjolras. “Did you ever try acting it out during a one-on-one session?”

“That’s- No,” he says firmly. “There’s no good way to approach someone with ‘hey, wanna practice kissing?’.”

“Sure there is, just say that.”

It’s a dumb idea, but even as they move onto prep work, Enjolras can’t stop thinking about it. Is the idea _really_ that bad?

When the clock on the wall tells them it’s time to head out, Enjolras slings his bag over his shoulder and marches off to find Grantaire. He’s surprised when Combeferre stops him just outside the door.

“Enjolras.” He speaks slowly and with intent, Enjolras’ name coming out as a stern warning, and Enjolras is instantly on high alert. He doesn’t know what he did to earn Combeferre’s admonishing tone - he’s not used to being its recipient - but he trusts Combeferre’s judgement maybe even more than his own and he takes his concerns very seriously. “Don’t do anything reckless.”

He doesn’t quite know what to make of that, but he takes it as _don’t do anything Courfeyrac would do,_ which are words of wisdom that he takes to heart _._ He decides to tread carefully for the rest of the evening and doesn’t bring up the topic of kissing while painting with Grantaire. It doesn’t change the fact that he can’t think of anything else, not while they’re painting, not while they’re driving, not while Grantaire adoringly pets his cat.

Because the more he thinks about it, the less terrible the idea sounds. Throughout the evening, his eyes flicker down to Grantaire’s lips more times than he’d care to admit and he’s left thinking that maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Something is off about rehearsal with Enjolras that evening, Grantaire can tell the second they enter Enjolras’ room. He’d been acting strange while they were painting and barely spoke a word in the car. He doesn’t seem upset, but Grantaire still has a pit in his stomach, a nagging concern that he might’ve done something wrong without realizing.

“Not bad,” Grantaire says, as they run through another scene without a hitch. “You’re really getting better at this.”

And it’s true. Enjolras has managed to weave his own personality into his character and it’s made his acting so much better. Honestly, practicing at this point is more for the sake of routine and formality. He’s already sure they’re going to ace their performance.

Enjolras smiles. “So for the next scene-”

“Right, the big showdown with Courf.” Grantaire speaks over him. “Do you want me to play his part so you can practice it?”

Enjolras frowns and Grantaire swallows the sudden lump in his throat. That has to be the scene he’s talking about, they never discuss the… other one before it.

“Grantaire.” He really, _really_ hates that tone, because he knows what’s coming and he was hoping to avoid ever having this discussion with Enjolras. He should’ve known Enjolras would be too stubborn for that. “We’re going to have to talk about this eventually.”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“The kiss,” Enjolras says. Grantaire draws back, but Enjolras moves closer to compensate. “If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine, but we need to figure this out.”

That startles a laugh out of Grantaire.

“You think I don’t-” He runs a hand through his hair, desperately needing something to do with it. The humour of the situation isn’t lost on him. Enjolras _genuinely thinks_ that he doesn’t want to kiss him with every fiber of his being. It’s such a ridiculous situation that Grantaire doesn’t even know how to properly respond. “No, that’s not- It’s fine, I can do it.”

Enjolras still seems hesitant. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything,” Grantaire bites out. “I agreed to do this.” A decision he now deeply regrets, but he doesn’t tell Enjolras that.

“Then can I kiss you?”

“ _What?_ ”

They stand there in the middle of Enjolras’ room, staring at each other in complete silence for a brief moment. Grantaire is sure he looks like an idiot, with his eyes wide in shock and his mouth opening and closing, unable to form words with the currently scattered state of his mind, but he can’t bring himself to care because _what the hell?!_

Enjolras watches him with careful eyes and takes a moment to choose his next words, as if afraid to spook him. _Too late, pal._

“You might be more comfortable if we practice,” he reasons.

Grantaire… can’t really fault that logic? Enjolras is definitely _wrong_ , because kissing him in a private setting only makes this a thousand times worse, but Grantaire can’t admit that without giving himself away and he’s very determined to avoid that at all cost.

“You want to practice… kissing?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

God, what has Grantaire’s life come to?

His self-preservation instincts tell him that he needs to refuse, he’ll definitely end up regretting this if he doesn’t. But his self-preservation instincts have always been shit and he’s weak to Enjolras, especially when he’s gazing at him with such earnest and determined eyes.

And besides, he reasons, he already stuck his foot in his mouth by agreeing so there’s really no chance of going back now anyway.

When he takes too long to respond, Enjolras takes initiative and cautiously moves closer. “Can I?”

He’s still a foot away, but it’s already too close. Grantaire feels like he’s suffocating.

Grantaire watches those fiery eyes glance down to his lips and just barely stops himself from blurting out ‘please’. “Knock yourself out.”

“Grantaire, I’m serious,” Enjolras huffs. “Consent is-”

The familiarity of Enjolras’ exasperation gives Grantaire a sudden burst of courage, and his words trail off as Grantaire breaches the short gap between them and bumps their noses together.

“Just kiss me,” Grantaire breathes against his lips.

That’s all the encouragement Enjolras needs before he swoops forward to give Grantaire the quickest press of lips in history. Grantaire is frozen on the spot for a minute, slow to process whether or not they actually made contact. When it finally hits him, he bursts out laughing.

“That’s it?” He manages between uncontrollable laughter. “You call _that_ a kiss?”

He realizes his mistake too late, because Enjolras definitely takes his words as a challenge. Grantaire only has time to recognize the fire in his eyes before Enjolras surges forward and presses their lips together again.

He’s much more confident this time, tangling his hands in Grantaire’s hair and guiding him to just the right angle. Grantaire responds instantly and it earns him an approving hum from Enjolras who proceeds to boldly swipe his tongue over his bottom lip. Grantaire gasps and Enjolras uses the opportunity to push for more. Grantaire gives in wholly and eagerly. It’s not an innocent kiss by any stretch of the imagination. It’s fierce and it’s competitive like everything they do, a give and take, push and pull. Grantaire grounds himself by clutching Enjolras’ hips, sinking his fingers in and pulling him closer, and revels in the way it makes Enjolras shudder.

Grantaire is the first to break away for air, taking in unsteady and shallow breaths, but he doesn’t move far, just rests their foreheads together and keeps his eyes closed, trying to savour it for one last second.

“Yeah. That’s uh-“ Grantaire clears his throat and keeps his eyes closed. Enjolras is breathing against his lips and gently stroking a thumb along his jawline, and Grantaire is experiencing sensory overload. “That’s better.”

He thinks that’s it, prepares to laugh it off and move on, but Enjolras doesn’t move away and the electric tension in the air is undeniable. Grantaire assumes that it’s just his imagination, as per usual, but when he finally opens his eyes, he sees Enjolras’ pupils blown wide and his face flushed, looking anything but unaffected.

“Still not good enough,” Enjolras whispers. “We need more practice.”

Grantaire’s brain stutters, he licks his lips in anticipation.

“Yes, yup, definitely. I totally, completely agree. You’re a terrible kisser.”

“ _I’m a-_ “

Competitive fury flashes in Enjolras’ eyes and this time, Grantaire gets the exact reaction he’s hoping for. Their lips connect again and Grantaire melts into it.

* * *

Kissing Grantaire is intoxicating. It shouldn’t be - it _really_ shouldn’t be - because they’re friends and the idea of kissing any of his other friends would make him gag. But this is... this is different somehow. _Because it’s Grantaire,_ his brain helpfully supplies. For once, he doesn’t deny it. It’s not as if he’s never been aware of the fact that he’s attracted to Grantaire - like he’d said to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he’s just objectively good-looking - but ignoring these kinds of intrusive thoughts has always made coping so much easier.

Enjolras licks into Grantaire’s mouth, and he can’t even bring himself to care that he definitely shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he is because Grantaire is so responsive, making desperate sounds and gripping his hips like a lifeline. Enjolras pushes until Grantaire takes the hint and steps backwards, dragging Enjolras with him. The back of his legs hit the bed and-

“Enjolras, supper’s ready! Papa wants-“

Enjolras isn’t sure which one of them trips, but they both go tumbling onto the bed and end up smacking foreheads. Enjolras lets out an ‘ow!’ and Grantaire hisses in pain, and neither of them has the presence of mind to untangle themselves. That is, unfortunately, how Cosette finds them when she throws open the door.

“Cosette!” Grantaire squeaks. “Uh, hi.”

Cosette blinks once before processing the scene before her and slamming the door shut.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” she calls, all in a rush from behind the closed door. “I’ll just- Carry on as you were!”

Enjolras opens his mouth to inform her that it’s not what it looks like, but the words get caught in his throat because… Well, it’s exactly what it looks like.

He sits up and glances at Grantaire, who’s now obviously avoiding eye contact.

“Sorry about uh…” Grantaire gestures to his own forehead, which is definitely going to be sporting a bruise soon.

Enjolras shakes his head and tries to smile in good humour. “I’m sorry Cosette walked in, now she’s probably going to make up a bunch of crazy theories about what we were doing. Can’t wait for the interrogation at supper.”

“Right.” The response is so curt, so devoid of emotion, that Enjolras’ smile instantly falls.

“Grantaire?”

“I should-“ Grantaire finally looks at him, but his gaze doesn’t seem to be able to focus. He gestures towards the door. “You know, probably go now. We practiced enough for today.”

Enjolras nods dumbly, unsure what more to say. He feels like they should talk about… what just happened, but Grantaire looks like he would rather be anywhere else right now and Enjolras doesn’t want to push him.

Enjolras walks Grantaire to the door and watches as he stops to give Patria a scratch behind the ears and, when Enjolras’ heart soars at the sight, he isn’t in the state of mind to pretend it’s anything other than affection. _Does he feel this way about all his friends?_

Enjolras sits on the staircase in silence after Grantaire leaves, maybe for a minute, maybe for an hour, but it does very little to clear his head. Questions that he’s been avoiding for years flow to the forefront of his mind and the feeling of Grantaire’s lips on his, fingers digging into his hips begging for more, is too fresh for him to ignore them anymore.

What is Grantaire?

His friend. No, more than that. A talented artist with an eye for beauty, a cat whisperer apparently (and a dog whisperer, if Courfeyrac’s family dog is anything to go by), an intellectual who can quote Greek passages but still somehow believes that he’s stupid, a skilled debater, easily able to match wits with Enjolras and never afraid to do so, a wholly devoted member of Les Amis, despite finding them all too idealistic. And what is Grantaire to _him_? He’s… Enjolras isn’t sure. He’s known for awhile now that he doesn’t see Grantaire the same way as he sees his other friends, but he still fails to understand why.

Cosette finds him like this, having an internal crisis on the staircase, and leans onto the railing next to him.

“Hey,” she smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry for interrupting you earlier, I didn’t know-“

“It was for the play,” Enjolras urges. It feels like a lie.

Cosette frowns, and for the first time, he finds himself dismayed at how well she can read him.

“Really?”

Enjolras nods, not quite looking at her. There’s a knot in his stomach that won’t go away and her analyzing stare is definitely not helping. Cosette sits down next to him.

“Alright,” she concedes, and for that he’s incredibly grateful. Maybe it’s not so bad that she can read him after all. She gently nudges his knee with her own to make him look at her. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think Grantaire would be doing all of this if it was just for the play.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

* * *

When Les Amis gather for their next group rehearsal, Jehan gets everyone’s attention by proudly brandishing a small stack of papers.

“Being the loving and generous playwright that I am,” he proclaims. “I wrote an alternate version of the confession scene where the two leads don’t kiss.”

Grantaire mentally sighs with relief. He’s been worried about this all day, because he and Enjolras haven’t practiced since… Well, since The Incident two days ago. He has no idea what Enjolras is thinking after that kiss and he’s definitely not going to ask. Which means he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do when they perform the scene with their friends.

“No,” Enjolras says immediately. “It’s too common for the media to leave same-sex relationships as subtext, we can’t do that. Besides, we figured it out.”

The room falls silent, but somehow Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice. Grantaire catches his eye and tries to figure out what he’s thinking, but he can’t read what’s lying beneath the righteous determination. He seems to realize a moment too late that he should’ve asked Grantaire’s opinion on the matter first and tries to backpedal.

“Unless you want the alternative.”

_Unless you don’t want to kiss me._

Grantaire swallows. Everyone in the room is watching him, a collection of people that he’s pretty sure are all painfully aware of his unrequited crush, except Enjolras himself. If Grantaire didn’t completely give himself away during The Incident, that is. Some of them, Joly, Bossuet, Cosette, are giving him pitying looks, because they know just as well as he does that Enjolras is oblivious to the implications of what he’s asking.

He shrugs and hopes it comes off as casual. “I mean, we already memorized all the lines of the old one. It would be really last minute to change it.”

Enjolras smiles, pleased with his answer, and Grantaire is at a complete loss. Why didn’t Enjolras jump at the opportunity to not have to kiss him again? The memory of hungry eyes and insistent kisses spring to mind and he immediately pushes them aside. It doesn’t mean anything, _it didn’t mean anything._

“Alright well that- Yeah, that works too.” Jehan sounds as shocked as Grantaire feels.

When they play out the scene, they actually follow through with their cue for the first time. After his expansive love confession, Enjolras searches his eyes, as if silently asking permission, and so Grantaire is the one to kiss him, firm but chaste. Enjolras follows a little when Grantaire pulls away and it makes a smile tug at his lips.

 _This is terrible_ , he thinks as his smile refuses to go away for the rest of rehearsal. Every time they kiss, it tricks his aching heart and he already knows he’s going to be ruined for kissing anyone else. He’s screwed.

He’s not the only one to notice the shift, however. The smirk Bahorel gives him on their way out of the room after rehearsal tells him that he won’t get away with not explaining this. He honestly wishes he knew how.

“Dude, what was _that?_ ” Bahorel jabs a thumb back towards the clubroom.

“What was what?”

Bahorel’s smirk doesn’t falter and Grantaire already knows there’s no way he’s getting out of this conversation.

“You’re telling me that 180 flip in there just came out of nowhere?” Bahorel shakes his head. “Not buying it. Come on, ‘fess up.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Just a case of ‘practice makes perfect’, I guess.”

“Practi- You practiced _kissing Enjolras_?”

_Oh shit, backpedal, backpedal!_

“I- That’s not what I _said-_ ”

“You’re not denying it!”

“S _hut up_.” Grantaire frantically checks behind him to make sure Enjolras didn’t happen to follow them out of the clubroom. “Someone might hear you.”

But Bahorel clearly doesn’t care, because he’s grinning like an idiot. Grantaire really wishes they were boxing right now so he would have a good excuse to punch him.

Bahorel lets out a whistle and gives him a clap on the back. “Man, you’re _so lucky_ you had me to encourage you to do the play.”

“You mean, force me?”

Bahorel waves his hand dismissively. “Semantics.”

“That’s not what ‘semantics’ means.”

“Okay, now you’re just being petty.” Bahorel frowns a little. “I thought you’d be happier about this.”

Grantaire twists the dangling cord from his backpack strap around his finger and keeps his attention on the motion to stop himself from thinking too hard.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he states, pretending he’s still sure of that fact. “He’s just doing it for the play.”

Bahorel lets out a noise of understanding. The two fall into silence for a brief moment as he pieces his thoughts together.

“I can’t read Enjolras’ mind so I can’t say for sure,” Bahorel says. “But he looked pretty into it. And I know his acting hasn’t improved _that_ much.”

His words ring through Grantaire’s head and he desperately forces down any hope that starts to blossom within him.

* * *

As the clubroom starts emptying out, Combeferre and Enjolras set about their routine of shoving three desks together while Courfeyrac chatters away with Marius. Enjolras hears Cosette’s name thrown around in their conversation and sees Marius’ cheeks turn pink, and he promptly drowns out their voices. He’s heard enough from Cosette about Marius’ ‘kind eyes’ and ‘charming personality’, he really doesn’t need to hear Marius mooning over his sister too. He genuinely can’t decide if he’s anticipating or dreading the day one of them finally makes a move.

Once most of Les Amis have filtered out of the room, Enjolras sits at the desk across from Combeferre to get to work - Courfeyrac will join them once he’s done socializing - but is approached by Joly before he can even open his notebook.

“Enjolras? I was wondering if I could speak with you.” Joly glances at Combeferre pointedly but not unkindly. “Alone please.”

“Of course.”

Enjolras and Combeferre exchange a nod before Enjolras stands and allows Joly to lead him out of the room to a secluded corner of the hallway.

Joly wastes no time in asking, “Why didn’t you accept the alternate scene?”

Enjolras is so caught off guard by the question that, for a brief second, he can’t even recall what the ‘alternate scene’ is. Once he does, all he does is frown. That’s what Joly wants to talk about? Why?

“Was it really just for LGBTQ rep?”

Enjolras’ response to _that_ is immediate. “Positive representation is important. The media’s representation of queer characters is non-existent at best and downright villainizing at worse. Contributing to that is just-”

“Nono, you’re right, you’re right!” Joly rushes to correct himself, throwing his hands up in a placating manner. “That was a bad word choice, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… There’s no… _other_ reason?”

His first instinct is to say no. He’s comfortable with the scene now, he thinks Grantaire is too, Jehan wrote it for a reason, it wraps up the characters’ romantic arcs, and it’s good rep. What more reason does he need?

But then Enjolras thinks of Grantaire, rolling his eyes when Enjolras paused to give him the choice of kissing him or not. He thinks of Grantaire, reaching out to cup Enjolras’ face and gently brushing his thumb against his cheek. He thinks of Grantaire, kissing him with perfect control and clear intent, and his subsequent smile, small but genuine, as Enjolras chased the contact when he pulled away too soon.

He thinks of Grantaire and suddenly the answer that had seemed so obvious two seconds ago is unclear.

“Do I need another reason?” He knows he’s deflecting, avoiding his honest answer, but he hopes Joly won’t push.

Joly observes him silently for a moment before shaking his head. 

“I guess not,” he concedes. Contrary to his words, he looks entirely unconvinced. “You two just seem… so comfortable kissing each other all of a sudden. I was wondering if maybe something happened.”

 _Something did happen,_ Enjolras doesn’t say. He wonders though, what it is exactly that Joly suspects.

Enjolras frowns. “Do you think I forced him?”

“No! Of course not, I know you would never do that. I just… I’m surprised Grantaire agreed to it and you-” Joly fidgets under Enjolras’ stare. “No, nevermind, I’m sorry for bringing it up. Please forget I asked.”

He hurries away before Enjolras can ask him why he’s surprised that Grantaire agreed. He knows they argue a lot, but surely Grantaire doesn’t find him that revolting, right?

The thought bothers him until he joins Grantaire in the art room later and the artist’s mouth quirks up upon hearing him enter. Any remaining concerns vanish when Grantaire kisses him - and lingers to press a second chaste kiss to his lips - during their next group rehearsal.

* * *

The day of their official performance arrives faster than Grantaire expected and before he knows it, he’s dressed as an old-timey noble, tugging at his too-tight collar and waiting backstage for the show to begin.

Grantaire considers himself a rather carefree person, easygoing and comfortable under most circumstances, but right now he can’t deny that he’s more fidgety than usual. Marius was as white as a sheet when he saw him earlier, and Musichetta and Bossuset are huddled up nearby, exchanging what seem to be reassuring words, so at least Grantaire knows he isn’t the only one, but that does very little to soothe his nerves.

“How are you feeling?” Joly asks in passing.

“Good, fine.” He cringes internally because his tone immediately gives him away as being neither _good_ nor _fine_.

Joly gives a gentle pat on the arm and a sweet smile, and Grantaire feels just a tiny bit better.

“You’re gonna do great, R. Don’t worry.”

With those words, he bounds off to join Bossuet and Musichetta, who light up at his presence and draw him in. Grantaire’s heart squeezes as he watches them, smiling at each other, exchanging soft words and reassuring contact, hair ruffling, hand holding, haphazardous kisses. He wishes he had something like that, someone to turn to when he’s a nervous wreck, someone who could reassure him with just their words and basic gestures of intimacy, and he hates that he’s stuck just standing here all by himself.

He startles when a hand lands on his shoulder and spins around so quickly that he almost trips over his own feet. The hand drops and he’s met with Enjolras’ frown.

“You’re nervous.” It’s not a question.

Grantaire rubs his sweaty palms against his pant legs. “No, I’m not.”

Enjolras’ frown deepens and Grantaire realizes that he must look as nervous as he feels, which isn’t promising for their performance in five minutes.

“Relax, Apollo, I’m not gonna chicken out on you or anything.” He manages to make his voice sound teasing, but he can tell his smirk isn’t quite right. “Even pros get nervous.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling now. “I’d hardly say a two week camp makes you a ‘pro’.”

“Oh, _now_ you challenge my credentials.”

Enjolras laughs and Grantaire preens a little at being the cause.

“Look-” Enjolras’ eyes are still shining and Grantaire holds onto every word. “Just do your best and whatever happens, happens.”

“This coming from our resident perfectionist?” Grantaire whistles. “And here I thought for sure you came over here to tell me not to screw up.”

Enjolras smiles at him.

“No, I believe in you.”

It’s said so earnestly that Grantaire’s heart swells in his chest and he’s left speechless for a moment. How the hell is he supposed to answer something like that coming from _Enjolras_?

“I, uh…” He coughs and clears his throat. “Thanks, I guess.”

 _Say it back, dumbass!_ He can’t.

“Of course.”

Enjolras gives him a nod before heading off to talk to Courfeyrac, who’s twirling around in his noble’s costume, far too delighted by his velvety cape, and showing off to Bahorel and Feuilly, who are laughing at his usual antics.

As soon as Enjolras walks away and the distraction is gone, Grantaire realizes that, at some point during their conversation, he’d stopped fidgeting. His mind sticks to the conversation. Then he starts fidgeting for another reason entirely.

Once the crowd goes silent and Feuilly finally starts narrating their introduction, Enjolras and Courfeyrac position themselves next to the curtain to await their cue. That’s when Grantaire steps past everyone else and grasps Enjolras by the wrist. Wide, blue eyes fall onto him.

“Grantaire?”

“Hey, uh, knock ‘em dead out there.” Grantaire steels himself, he needs to say this. “I believe in you too.”

All of their friends are watching, but all that matters in that moment is the way Enjolras’ face lights up. He twists his hand in Grantaire’s grip until their hands are clasped.

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispers, intertwining their fingers.

He waits the full minute it takes Feuilly to finish the introduction before releasing Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire can’t even imagine how dumb they must look to the rest of their friends, just standing there, grinning at each other. But the moment ends, Enjolras and Courfeyrac, who share the first scene of the play, make their way onto the stage and the performance begins.

* * *

Enjolras can’t pinpoint the exact moment he realizes. It might be when Grantaire holds his wrist and tells him he believes in him like it’s an admission of something more, or maybe it’s at some point throughout the play, or even when Grantaire gives him that rare soft smile at the start of their kiss scene. Either way, Enjolras doesn’t have a ‘holy shit’ moment when he realizes, it’s more of a quiet ‘oh, of course’ as his mind slowly pieces things together and, instead of ignoring the signs as he normally does, he finally accepts it.

It isn’t because of the kiss, as he suspected a few days prior.

No, rather it’s in the way Grantaire winks at him during their first meeting scene. It’s in the way Grantaire smiles, sometimes smug and playful, sometimes fond and earnest, and how Enjolras is always compelled to smile back no matter the mood of the scene. It’s in the way Grantaire holds his hand with just the right amount of pressure and squeezes reassuringly if Enjolras doesn’t say his line perfectly. It’s in the way Grantaire argues with him, pushes his buttons, adores his cat, tugs at his heart, sweet-talks his father, always knows what to say, has his sandwich order memorized, reads Enjolras so well, devotes himself entirely to his friends, always backs Enjolras up when he really needed it, and sincerely declares ‘I believe in you too’. It’s in everything he does.

And it’s been there since long before Les Amis ever even conceived the play.

He’s in love with Grantaire.

The realization plays on loop in his head throughout the play, _I’m in love with Grantaire, I’m in love with Grantaire, I’m in love with Grantaire._ It makes their kiss scene bittersweet, because Enjolras’ heart sinks at the prospect of never being able to kiss him again. After this, he won’t be allowed to kiss Grantaire, they won’t exchange casual touches, he won’t have an excuse to spend hours with him, just painting and bickering and eating fancy pastries.

Now that he’s finally admitted he wants it, he’s going to lose it all.

So before he kisses Grantaire for what might be the last time, he cups his cheeks and whispers, “Can I?” instead of his scripted line.

A myriad of emotions flash across Grantaire’s face, at least one of which is recognition, though Enjolras doubts Grantaire could fully understand what’s going on in his mind right then. Grantaire, who always knows how to perfectly cover for Enjolras’ mishaps, smoothly responds by leaning forward just enough to brush his lips against Enjolras’ and peer at him through half-lidded eyes. Enjolras shudders.

“Please.”

He doesn’t overindulge, because he’s still not sure where Grantaire stands and he doesn’t want to take advantage, so it’s a careful and chaste kiss.

But he wants to get his message across, so he allows himself the smallest indulgence and stays close afterwards, just long enough to breathe out, “I love you.”

Grantaire knows just as well as him that it’s not part of the script and it shows on his face. It’s not the ecstatic look Enjolras was hoping for.

The rest of the play continues as planned. Grantaire shoots him glances, as usual, but now he’s keenly aware of every single one. He can’t decipher the look in Grantaire’s eyes and he can’t ask while they’re still performing, so he treads carefully and doesn’t initiate any contact between them. He does, however, give Grantaire’s hand a reassuring squeeze when Grantaire makes the move to hold his hand. It doesn’t have the intended effect and, though Enjolras is sure the audience can’t tell, Grantaire is definitely more distant throughout the rest of the performance.

They take their bow, the audience cheers, all of Les Amis congregate backstage to congratulate each other, and Grantaire waits all of two minutes to corner him.

“Can I talk to you outside?”

All hope that Grantaire might reciprocate leaves him, because he doesn’t sound particularly happy and it’s clearly Enjolras’ fault.

* * *

Grantaire takes Enjolras out a backdoor that leads to behind the school, where their only source of light is a flickering lamp post that’s just a little too far to illuminate Enjolras’ facial expressions, and they walk alongside the school wall in silence for a minute as he considers how to put his thoughts into words.

Grantaire settles on, “Why would you say that?”

“Say what?”

He really, _really_ doesn’t want to repeat the words. It’s bad enough that he’s going to have the memory of Enjolras saying he _loves_ him ingrained in his brain for the rest of his life, he doesn’t need the added torture of having said it too. If he wasn’t absolutely screwed for ever getting over Enjolras before, he definitely is now.

He should’ve known that doing this play was a mistake.

“On stage,” he says instead. “You changed the script.”

Thankfully, Enjolras seems to understand what he’s referring to.

“I made you uncomfortable,” Enjolras realizes. “I really thought you would… be happy about it.” _Not like this. Not when it’s clearly fake._ Enjolras looks guilty and apologetic, and fixes his gaze resolutely on the grass at his feet. Grantaire’s stomach twists. He never wanted Enjolras’ pity, it’s one of many reasons he’s never said anything. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire isn’t stupid, he knows what this is. Ever since his unscripted declaration of love, Enjolras has been treating him like delicate glass on the verge of shattering. He’s not sure if Enjolras meant it as some kind of messed up reward to Grantaire for his help on the play or if he was maybe following a well-intentioned suggestion from one of their friends - it seems like the kind of misguided matchmaking gesture Courfeyrac might make, something along the lines of ‘if he says it out loud, he might realize it’s true’ - but either way, Enjolras just confirmed what he already suspected.

Enjolras knows Grantaire’s hopelessly in love with him.

And it… well, it hurts. Because someone must’ve told Enjolras. Grantaire has kept his massive crush from him for years and he knows he’s never been discreet, so there’s no way Enjolras is just magically figuring it out _now_ without assistance. Dread consumes him, and he doesn’t know if he’s more upset by the idea of one of his friends betraying his trust or Enjolras’ imminent rejection, which he’s fought so hard to avoid for so long.

He shouldn’t prod, he knows he won’t like the answer, no matter what it is, and he should really just let this go and hope Enjolras will too. But he’s angry, he’s heartbroken, he’s already dug his grave this deep, and he decides that he deserves to know.

“Who told you I’m-” He realizes his mistake too late. “That I-”

Enjolras’ unfairly gorgeous eyes lift from the ground to fix him with a curious stare and Grantaire quickly trails off, unsure how to fix his blunder.

“That you’re what?” Enjolras asks.

“No, nothing. That’s not the point.” Grantaire desperately tries to course-correct. “Who told you to say it?”

Some kind of realization shows clear as day on Enjolras’ face and it only serves to deepen the pit in Grantaire’s stomach, because whatever realization he’s having can’t be good news.

“You’re hiding something.” A corner of Enjolras’ lips turns upwards and suddenly he doesn’t look so abashed anymore. “Grantaire, what aren’t you telling me?”

“You’re not answering the question.”

“ _You’re_ not answering _my_ question.”

“You already _know_!” Grantaire throws his arms out in frustration. “What sick satisfaction could you possibly get from hearing me say it?”

But Enjolras is an unstoppable force and once he’s made up his mind, there’s no changing it. He stares intently into Grantaire’s eyes and does not hesitate.

“Say _what_?” It’s a demand and it’s completely _unfair,_ because Grantaire is currently vulnerable and he couldn’t deny Enjolras even on his best day.

Grantaire finally snaps.

“That I’ve been in love with you for _years,_ is that what you want to hear?!” He’s screaming, his lungs are burning, and his heart aches like an open wound. He thinks that it might’ve been therapeutic to vent about his feelings like this if it wasn’t in front of the very person he’s venting about. “I’m stupidly in love with you and everyone knows but you, and I know you didn’t figure it out by yourself because it’s not like I _just_ started being obvious _now,_ and I want-”

Enjolras’ eyes start growing wide and Grantaire barely has the time to realize that he screwed up.

“You’re- Wait, really?”

And all at once, Grantaire’s frustration fades into the background, a distant memory. His stomach drops and his brain takes a second to recalibrate, because _wait, shit, he didn’t think this through._

“You didn’t-” Any semblance of calm he had before quickly vanishes. “ _Didn’t you know?!_ ”

“Of course not!”

Oh, fuck his life.

Grantaire immediately goes into panic mode. It takes all the dignity he can scrape together not to run to his car and just speed away. 

“Of course you didn’t know, _of course-“_ He forces himself to breathe, to imitate some approximation of calm. “Let’s just- How about we pretend I didn’t say anything?”

“Wait no, Grantaire-”

“Okay, listen, ‘love’ is a strong word. I just- you know, I _strongly_ like you. In a non-platonic way. God, I’m making it worse-“

“ _Grantaire._ ”

Enjolras - selfless, perfect Enjolras who would’ve _obviously_ never intentionally played with Grantaire’s emotions - places a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, likely as an attempt at comforting him, but it’s too late. He’s way too far gone.

“Please don’t kick me out of the club,” Grantaire says all in a rush. “I won’t be weird about it, I swear, we can just forget I said anything and go back to normal-”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras steps in front of him and grabs his face in both hands, squishing his cheeks until he physically can’t speak. “I’m not kicking you out of the club, calm down!”

There’s a short pause, during which they both just stare at each other, but then, very suddenly and out of nowhere, Enjolras bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard that he has to lean his forehead onto Grantaire’s shoulder to keep from doubling over and, for a horrifying moment, Grantaire thinks he’s being made fun of.

“I can’t believe-” Enjolras gets interrupted by another fit of laughter. “I can’t _believe_ you! I literally said to your face that I love you and you think I’m upset that you like me back?”

That can’t… Nope, no way. That doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

But Enjolras is smiling and it’s so wide and so genuine that Grantaire no longer knows what he’s supposed to think. He doesn’t even remember the last time he saw Enjolras this happy.

“You mean it wasn’t some…” He gestures vaguely, careful not to dislodge Enjolras’ hands that are now resting on his shoulders. “I don’t know, weird suggestion by Courfeyrac? Because he’s tried playing matchmaker before and he _really_ sucks at it.”

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth, before narrowing his eyes. “Actually, that explains a lot,” he continues, talking over Grantaire’s amused snort. “But no. I said it because I meant it.”

Grantaire forgets how to breathe. He’s been in love with Enjolras since the very day they met - which was, what, three _years_ ago? - and he’d convinced himself that he had no chance in that same moment. He would pinch himself if he wasn’t already acutely aware of the _very_ real sensation of Enjolras’ hands on him.

“So you…”

Enjolras smiles at him and nods. It’s not enough.

“Say it.”

Enjolras obliges him. “I ‘strongly like you’ too. In a non-platonic way, of course.”

Grantaire groans and Enjolras dissolves into a fit of laughter again.

“Can we please never talk about that again?” Grantaire pleads.

“Absolutely not, I’m never going to let you live that down.”

“Your cruelty truly knows no bounds, Apollo.”

A beautiful combination of amusement and determination flashes across Enjolras’ face, and he loops his arms around Grantaire’s neck in a deliberately slow and methodical motion. Grantaire’s hands automatically move to rest on his waist.

“I’m sure I could make it up to you.” It’s said playfully, but this is _Enjolras_ and he never says anything he doesn’t mean. The fire in his eyes guarantees that he would follow through on the promise.

“Okay but just to be clear-” Because it’s too good to be true and Grantaire is still struggling to wrap his head around the concept of Enjolras reciprocating his feelings. “You _do_ mean it, right?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes so hard that Grantaire fears they might get stuck in the back of his head.

“ _Yes_ , Grantaire, for the third time.” Enjolras’ expression is nothing but earnest, fond, and jokingly exasperated. His smile is confident, his stare doesn’t falter, his arms are sure around Grantaire. He means it. “I love you too.”

Grantaire’s heart does somersaults and no amount of acting skills could stop him from grinning like an idiot right now. He wants to hear nothing but those words on repeat for the rest of his life, he wants to kiss them off Enjolras’ lips, he wants to stay in this moment for as long as possible, and hold Enjolras until his brain is fully convinced this is real. In fact, he realizes, now he _can_.

Feeling emboldened by Enjolras’ admission, Grantaire slides his arms around him and pulls him close enough that they’re sharing the same air.

“Really? _Me_?” Grantaire says. “Wow, I thought you’d have better taste.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I could do worse.”

“God, you’re such a romantic. Is this the kind of compliment I should expect from now on?”

“Absolutely.” Enjolras’ eyes shine as he nods. “Now’s probably a good time to warn you that I’m a huge sap.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to laugh now.

“I think I can handle that,” he assures Enjolras.

“Good.”

He’s not sure which one of them moves first, but Grantaire’s eyes flutter shut and then they’re kissing, urgent and unrestrained. Grantaire can hear people and cars in the parking lot around the corner, he can barely even see, and his costume is scratchy and constricting, but it’s still perfect. Enjolras, here with him, smiling against his lips before diving back in for more, is perfect and he wouldn’t change a thing about this moment. They kiss under the faint light of the lamp post until Grantaire has to remind Enjolras that their friends are probably wondering where they are. Enjolras untangles himself from Grantaire only after obtaining reassurance that they will be continuing this later and _god,_ that’s a promise Grantaire intends to keep. Grantaire has never been good at saying no to him anyway and he doesn’t plan on starting now.

Enjolras extends his hand and Grantaire takes it. They walk back into the school with their hands linked and matching grins on their faces.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please consider giving it a Kudos and/or Comment. Each one makes my day!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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